six
by givemekevinbacon
Summary: "You want to know the best part about you ramming your car through my house?" she narrowed her eyes at him, her voice growing colder with every unspoken syllable, every slight pause. "Nothing I do to you will ever be as bad as what you did to me." House is out of jail, and Cuddy isn't leaving until she finds the answers to the questions she isn't sure she wants to ask.


_Moving On keeps drawing me back in, doesn't it? This is a very different approach than I usually take. But, I know there are people out there who truly believe the thought process that I explore in this story. I don't think we'll ever know what really caused him to do that (do the writers even know?), but it's fun to explore new ideas. _

_Based on a six word story. _

* * *

She doesn't know why she's here. Why she's drinking his scotch and letting her lips linger on the rim of the glass longer than normal; it stings as it goes down and she coughs, bringing a hand to her chest but refusing to put the glass down. She likes the way it burns.

Remnants of her red lipstick rub off on the glass but she doesn't bother to smear it away. She wants him to know that she was here. Wants him to burn as hard as she is. She doesn't remember the last time she wore lipstick, but she put it on just for him—just so he would know that he hadn't broke her. Hadn't destroyed her. She refused to give him all that power—even if he broken her. Even if he had destroyed her.

She gulped.

It was nearing eleven. She thought he would have been back by now. Back from where, she didn't care to know, but she thought—she just thought he'd be back. She picked up her phone and scrolled through her emails, pretending to busy herself while she waited.

It was useless.

She dialed the first four digits of his number and then quickly hung up, hating herself for remembering his number in the first place, and mentally restraining herself from dialing all seven. She took another sip, a longer one this time, draining the glass and refusing to be ashamed for it. She got up and poured another, feeling slightly tipsy as she made the short walk from the couch to the bookshelf, where she knew he kept the old, expensive, one-of-a-kind liquor.

She planned on drinking him dry and not caring one bit. But God had a habit of laughing at her plans, so she wasn't too optimistic.

She sat back down on the couch, placing her glass on the table and crossing her legs primly. Drumming her fingers against her thigh, she sighed, growing increasingly annoyed with his absence and fearful that she was going to lose the feigned edge to her voice she'd tried so hard to perfect.

It was close to midnight by the time she heard the turning of his doorknob. Her heart quickened and she was suddenly rethinking everything and regretting that second—no, third—glass of scotch.

But then he walked in.

His eyes were wide and full of questions and he gulped, mouth slightly agape as he seemed to drink in her presence. She sat there, watching him as his eyes travelled from the loose waves in her hair to the tiny freckle next to her nose that he used to make fun of her for, to the red stain on her slightly parted lips and to the sadness in her eyes that she futilely tried to hide.

"You're not hiding a gun in that purse, are you?" he asked, never faltering. "Because if you are, I'd appreciate the chance to at least try and run away."

Cuddy stood up, knees slightly wobbling as she shook her head. "No gun," she answered. "Just me."

He nodded.

"You broke into my house," he said, limping over to where she stood. He spotted the glass on the table and lifted it to his nose, wincing as he caught the pungent smell of the scotch. "Helped yourself to my scotch."

"You always had excellent deduction skills," she said slowly, slightly slurring her words.

"What are you doing here, Cuddy?" he asked, sighing.

She shrugged.

"Wilson told me you'd been released from jail."

"That's not an answer," he countered, sitting down on the couch next to her. "I'd ask you if I could sit down, but it's my couch," he said mockingly.

She rolled her eyes.

"You look good," he murmured.

"Stop it," she ordered, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. "You don't get to talk to me like that anymore."

He scoffed.

"You're in my house, Cuddy. Drinking my scotch, slouching provocatively on my couch, making me think it's okay for us to be in the same room—what did you expect when you walked in here?"

"I don't know," she whispered, her eyes darting towards his. Blue met grey, and she bit down on her bottom lip, really seeing him for the first time since he'd walked in that door. His face was more wrinkled and his hair was longer, and he needed a shave, but not a complete shave, because she'd always liked him with a little stubble.

Sometimes she let her makeup brush linger on her cheek in the morning, desperately searching for that feeling of his stubble against her skin. But she never found it, and sometimes she would lie down at night wondering if she ever would.

"I don't know what I came for," she muttered, lifting her eyes towards his once again. "I have so many questions and so much anger that I—I don't know where to start. And I want to hate you, and most days I do, but there are some days when I'm looking at my life and wondering how it got _so _screwed up, and I just wish—I wish you were there. And then I start thinking about how screwed up that is, because you _ruined_ me, and I—"she paused, the words getting caught in her throat. He handed her the glass and she took it, taking a deep breath as their pinkies grazed. "I don't know how to escape from you," she whispered, taking another drink and swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat.

She stood up.

"You have to help me," she ordered, her voice growing firm. "You have to explain to me why you abandoned me, why you married that—that _girl_, and why you—" she took a deep breath, shaking her head before continuing. "Why you drove your car through my home."

"It doesn't matter why I did it," he said calmly. He wasn't going to fight her on this.

"Bullshit!" she yelled. "There's always a reason! Everything always means something. You never let me forget that," she pointed out.

"Cuddy," he said softly. "Stop it."

"Why?" she asked. "Am I making you uncomfortable? Is this situation hard for you? Because I've got news for you, these past two years haven't exactly been _stellar_ for me. You have no idea what you put me through."

"I spent over a year in jail! Trust me, it was no picnic," he said.

"You think that _absolves _you?" she asked in disbelief. " Facing the legal repercussions of your actions isn't enough. You still have to answer to me, House. You don't get off that easy."

"I don't have to do anything for you, Cuddy," he rebuffed. "It's time for you to go. I'm calling you a cab."

"You can't kick me out," she exclaimed.

"Actually, I can. That's what happens when you barge into people's homes unannounced and drink all their scotch. You get kicked out."

She laughed mirthlessly.

"You want to know the best part about you ramming your car through my house?" she narrowed her eyes at him, her voice growing colder with every unspoken syllable, every slight pause. "Nothing I do to you will ever be as bad as what you did to me."

He rolled his eyes.

"I get it. I'm a monster and you're a saint. Now that that's been established, you can get the hell out of my apartment and move on with your life."

"What do you think I've been trying to do, House?" she asked, her shoulders dropping. She lifted a hand to her hair, running her fingers through her locks as she paced back and forth. "You're everywhere. Don't you understand that? You're like this infection that flares up out of nowhere, but there's no cure, and I have to—I have to live with the curse of loving you. And it's hard to hate someone you love."

He sighed.

"You need to hate me, Cuddy," he said. "You need to remove yourself from me. That was the whole point."

She paused.

"The whole point of what?" she asked cautiously.

He shrugged.

"I was serious when I told you to leave," he said firmly. "You don't want to hear this."

"Yes I do," she countered. "Tell me, House. Tell me why you did it."

"I can't," he answered. "You won't understand."

"You have to let me try, House. I need—"she paused again, closing her eyes and clenching her fists. "I need to understand."

He sighed, shaking his head. He looked over at her. She was even beautiful when she was drunk. It was one of those things he hated about her—her ability to just _be _beautiful, no matter the situation. It was the most painfully satisfying thing about her.

He took the glass from her, pulse quickening as their fingers grazed once more. He drained the glass and then set it down, pushing it as far away from them as possible.

"You needed a clean break from me," he began. "So I forced your hand. I knew you would never move on from us, if I was always in your life. We couldn't go backwards."

"That doesn't make any sense," she interrupted. "Don't try to make yourself into a martyr."

"I'm not saying it wasn't horribly drastic, or that I wasn't being self-destructive, but you needed to get away from me. Drastic and self-destructive was all I had left. We can't be together, Cuddy," he added sadly.

She sighed, leaning back into the couch.

"I know," she answered. She looked over at him. "Are you happy, House? With being alone?"

He shrugged.

"I'd spend the rest of my life alone if it meant you had even the slightest chance of being happy."

She nodded, wiping away a tear before gathering up her things. She placed her hand on his cheek, running her thumb across it. And she smiled, because she had finally found the answers—and the stubble.

She leaned in, gently pressing her lips to his cheek as she said:

"Goodbye, House."

* * *

_"You deserve happiness. So I left."_

_-Alison _


End file.
